


world spinning like a weathervane

by TheSultansDaughter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Canon Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Mad Queen Dany, Spoilers for 8.05, spoilers for leaks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 18:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSultansDaughter/pseuds/TheSultansDaughter
Summary: She’s gone now. Strong like iron Daenerys, sweet and gentle Dany are dead. All that was left of her was a beautiful shell of grief and vengeance and madness and fire. But within that shell grew his child. For the child, the realm and Dany’s memory Jon would do his duty. He would be Aegon Targaryen. He would marry the Mad Queen under the charred remains a weirwood tree, for no child of his would be born a bastard, no matter the cost.





	world spinning like a weathervane

**Author's Note:**

> Dreamt this up yesterday and made it an outlet for my angst. Looking forward to your thoughts.  
> Title from the song Hurricane by Fleurie, I listened to it on repeat as I wrote this.

**

 

She finally sat upon that wretched ugly throne in the ruins of the Red Keep, less than ruins if Jon is being honest. 

The chair really is ugly, swords pointing everywhere in haphazard chaos,

_Just like her mind, Jon thought as he looked at the throne for the first time wondering what was it about this horrid chair that was so wondrous._

The ashes of the dead fall beautifully like freshly fallen snow upon her dark armour, a three headed dragon pin keeps her crimson coat fastened. 

Drogon grumbled powerfully behind her and her two loyal armies stand in a protective formation around her, forming a human shield. Jon had heard their cheers as she passionately addressed them in High Valyrian and Dothraki amongst the ruins, the ashes, the bodies, or what was left of them. Even some of the northern stragglers cheer along to Jon's disgust.

The same day as her victory, a fleet of ships baring the Targaryen sigil arrive in Blackwater Bay. Hundreds of foreign troops disembark and march through the flattened city led by a handsome man dressed in blue. Black bearded, handsome and tall, he greets the Queen with a low bow and a kiss to her outstretched hand. She rises from her throne and embraces him warmly, murmuring something quietly in his ear. 

Jon learns his name is Daario Naharis. He calls her Daenerys Stormborn, tells her proudly that he always knew she was more conquerer than queen. 

She calls him dear and loyal friend. 

The fresh troops that appeared from the sea cheer for her shouting the words _ñuha dāria_ and _Mhysa_. Jon knows what the words mean now, and they make him shudder. 

_Queen of the ashes, mother of madness._

 

**

 

Jon’s promise to Arya weight on him like the chains of a slave. All he feels is regret and failure, his mind dancing with maybes and what-ifs. Regret for not telling Dany how he loved her sooner. For not defending her to Sansa, Sam, the North. For telling her his truth at all. Sansa’s betrayal stings worst of all. He can’t imagine how he’d ever look at her again. 

Perhaps he could forgive, but not today. 

He bends the knee to her in the throne room. She’s beautiful on that dark ugly chair, Arya’s dagger presses against his thigh. He could hear Arya’s hoarse whispers, see her bloodied face. She’s telling him to do it, but he doesn’t know if he can. 

She didn’t deserve to die humiliated in front of her armies, Davos had advised him not to make her a martyr. 

He bends the knee as Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. She smiles but her eyes are dead.

When he asks for a private audience she accepts but it isn’t really private. Grey Worm follows her everywhere, as does Drogon now that the Red Keep is destroyed enough that he can roam freely amongst the rubble. They’re in what’s left of the garden now, withered roses and dead trees. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t fled, nephew,” 

Her voice doesn’t even sound the same, but he hates that sound of that word all the same. _Nephew._ He wished the word didn't exist. _Part of him wishes no one had ever told him anything. He wished he still knew nothing._

“How could I, you’re my Queen,”

Jon is hyper aware of the hidden dagger now. He knows he’s going to die here and now with the shell of the woman he had loved, still loved, would always love even in her evil. 

He steps towards her slowly, carefully as though the floor would break and swallow him whole if he misstepped. 

“You know that I love you and I don’t want the throne. I am pledged to you,” he says with his hand hovering above his hip. Grey Worm is glowering at him, his only expression since Missendei’s death.

Suddenly she’s turns on her heels and walks towards a charred rose bush. She brushes her hands across the leaves, many of them disintegrating to ash. 

“Do you remember when we were in the dragon pit before the war and you told me something,” she says wistfully.

Jon is racking his brain, beads of sweat forming on his brow, all he had to do was be quick about it. 

“It seems you were right, that witch in Essos wasn’t the most reliable source of information,” she places her hand on her stomach tenderly and looks at him with those dead eyes. For a moment his sees the longing of a ghost he’d held in his arms on the shores of Dragonstone. 

Suddenly it’s as if Jon has died again, dark, dizzying nothingness and then a gasp for cold ashen air. 

“How long,” he stutters, his hands are shaking, knees trembling, he can’t look her in the eye. 

“Since Winterfell,” she says. “You master examined us all after the war. I was convinced he was wrong…but then I felt her kick inside me, our child, born of our love on that ship. Don’t you remember.”

She’s gone now. Strong like iron Daenerys, sweet and gentle Dany are dead. All that was left of her was a beautiful shell of grief and vengeance and madness and fire. But within that shell grew his child. 

He immediately falls to his knees and takes her hands in his, forcing himself to look up into her in the eyes for the first time since that night he pulled away from her kiss by the roaring fire. He says the words and searches those green eyes hoping for a spark of life. 

All he finds is death. 

The Queen lifts him off his knees and embraces him like a lover, cupping his face in her hands so tenderly like Dany used to. 

“Blood of my blood,” she whispers in his ear and kisses sweetly on the mouth. 

Her kiss tastes like fire, blood and death, but his child is alive.

For the child, the realm and Dany’s memory, Jon would do his duty. He would be Aegon Targaryen. He would marry the Mad Queen in Dany’s beautiful shell under the charred remains a weirwood tree, for no child of his would be born a bastard, no matter the cost.


End file.
